


The Party Ambulance Returns

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Gangbang, Gangclang, Light Dom/sub, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift and Ratchet attend one of Rodimus' interfacing evenings at Swerve's Bar.<br/>Nobody expected the Party Ambulance.</p><p>Gratuitous oneshot of smut that may or may not have a place in a larger story arc.<br/>Imbibe with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Party Ambulance Returns

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Swerve's Swinger Soirees](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283822) by [Gourmet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gourmet/pseuds/Gourmet). 



> The Maternal Unit publicly humiliated me on my birthday so I wrote 3,000+ words of robot porn to cheer myself up.  
> This is the more-or-less edited version of what appeared on my Tumblr.  
> You're welcome.

Drift and Ratchet were seated in Swerve's on 'that' day of the month.

The day the Captain was hauled in by the scruff of his neck and left tied to a special padded table with his legs spread and interfacing equipment exposed for the crew to use at their leisure while Ultra Magnus supervised.

The self-imposed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord was currently holding a datapad in one hand and rubbing slow circles into the metal of the Captain's helm with the other. At the other end of Rodimus’ frame a moderately inebriated Brainstorm rolled his hips, spiking the red-and-gold speedster with an easy rhythm that had the bound mech moaning happily and drooling onto the tough padding of his table.

Upbeat background music covered the squishing noises that would doubtlessly be coming from Rodimus' well-used valve by this point in the proceedings. His aft and legs certainly looked as if someone had been throwing cubes of various fluids over them.

The sight was almost as intoxicating as the 'Cocktail of the Evening' Swerve had invented for this particular occasion.

"Are you sure you want to do this, kid?" Ratchet asked as Drift sipped his drink, optics glued to the sight of glossy pink lubricant running down Rodimus' thighs. "I know exhibitionism isn't your thing."

Ratchet could feel his systems heating at the thought of what was to come. They'd been running warm since Drift had suggested they revisit his days as the 'Party Ambulance'. While Drift himself wasn’t into public interfacing, the idea of indulging a particular combination of their kinks while mentally scarring the rest of the crew was simply too much for the Swordsmech to resist.

"Yeah. I did promise Roddy a surprise and I wouldn't want to disappoint him." Drift said, smiling at Ratchet. "The crew does seem to be much better at respecting boundaries than I expected. Besides, we have the Word. I promise I will use it the instant I change my mind. You do too, alright?"

Ratchet snorted through his vents as he downed the last of his engex, feeling the burn of something completely unrelated to the intoxicant creep through his circuitry.

"Less chance of me needing it than you in this instance, but I'll keep it in mind." The Medic said, feeling a warm breeze on his neck cables which was followed by a glossa tracing a path from collar to helm.

"Excellent." Drift purred, reaching up to tilt Ratchet's helm so he had better access to gently close his pointed denta around a main energon line. "Shall we get started then?" He hummed into the Medic's neck.

Ratchet replied by running a hand down Drift's side, feeling the vibrations of his powerful high-performance engine as it thrummed with building excitement. Their cooling fans activated, creating a localised droning backdrop to the music as it changed to something with a slightly heavier beat. Ratchet traced a delicate path over the large gap at Drift's hip, deliberately avoiding the Speedster's favourite erogenous zone and moving directly to run a finger around the red plating protecting Drift's spike housing. 

It was so hot the delicate sensors in Ratchet's servos shut down to keep them from being damaged. His valve twitched in anticipation, lubrication beginning to pool behind the cover as intense sense-memories of Drift’s spike sent tingles through his neural circuitry.

"Slagg _errrrrr_ " Was growled directly into Ratchet's audio moments before Drift picked the Medic up and dumped him unceremoniously in his lap.

From his new seat astride Drift’s thighs Ratchet facing the rest of the bar with back pressed to the Speedster’s chest. Half a dozen or so mechs turned startled optics in their direction but quickly refocused on the more entertaining sight of Rodimus squirming under Brainstorm’s surging pattern of thrusts.

"Since you're so  _determined_  to misbehave, dear one," Drift enunciated every glyph with precise care against Ratchet's audio, pushing the medic's knees further apart to display his interface panel to the entire room, "It seems that I'm just going to have to be extra-vigilant to ensure that you don't get  _any_  opportunities to do so."

Ratchet offlined his optics with bliss as the words shot straight to his array. He reached blindly backwards, clutching at the Speedster’s hips and pulling himself down to grind their closed panels together. The heat was incredible, encouraging his valve to release another flood of lubricant. By this point it was probably leaking out of his seams for everyone at the bar to see. Drift's hands were busy; one pulling Ratchet's shoulders back to press them flush against his chest while the other slid around to tap sharply on Ratchet's closed interface panel.

"Open this for me." Drift commanded, turning the Medic's head so he could see the expression on the older mech's face. Ratchet brought his optics online, unusually pliant in the Speedster's embrace. "Show them how  _wrong_  they are for assuming that the Party Ambulance is no more."

Pure lust spiked through the Medic as he lunged forward to devour the sharp-edged grin plastered across Drift's faceplates. His main interface cover folded aside so fast it practically dematerialised; secondary protective layers shifting smoothly to allow his mostly-red spike to extend smoothly into the air before the disbelieving optics of their nearest neighbours. A burst of transparent pinkish lubricant splashed down onto Drift's closed panel, drawing a decadent moan from the Speedster as he plundered Ratchet's oral cavity.

The chest pressed to Ratchet's back transmitted the rumble of Drift's engine as the lubricant-coated panels beneath the medic folded aside. In the frame created by Ratchet's spread thighs, Drift's spike rose to slide teasingly against the Medic's valve, the head nudging an external node cluster at the base of Ratchet’s straining spike. By now half the bar was fixated on the unexpected show. The pressure of all those optics had Ratchet lubricating freely, twitching spasmodically in Drift's grasp and panting harshly through his vents.

He’d missed this _so_ much more than he realised.

Drift released him from the kiss, allowing the Medic some freedom of movement. Ratchet attempt to focus lust-hazed optics on their audience while Drift's hands shifted, gripping him by his blocky red pelvic span and lifting him with lazy strength. The way Ratchet was splayed out over the speedster's powerful thighs with his toepieces just scraping the floor meant he was completely at Drift's mercy. His valve tried to close around nothing, discharging more lubricant which landed on Drift's spike, staining it pink as Ratchet's fluids followed the inescapable pull of gravity.

Across the bar, Rodimus was watching them. The Captain was heedless of the puddle of oral solvents he had drooled onto the table which were now smearing across his faceplates as he writhed beneath Brainstorm. He made optic contact with Ratchet and winked bare moments before his entire body seized in overload, taking a shrieking Brainstorm with him into bliss.

When he was certain Ratchet was completely absorbed in watching the overloading pair, Drift started lowering the Medic onto his achingly pressurised spike. Arms shaking, he brought the older mech down onto his shaft with agonising slowness. He buried his faceplates against the back of Ratchet's neck, moaning into the tense cables as he savoured the hot, wet embrace of the deliciously familiar valve. Drift could feel the medic's arousal in the liquid flutterings of valve calipers, the pulsating roar of his sturdy engine and the EM field that whipped at his own with desperate lust.

With Ratchet's body as a shield between himself and the optics that would doubtlessly be devouring them, Drift was enjoying this  _far_  more than he thought he would.

He began to rock his hips slowly, holding the hips of the writhing Medic perfectly still so he could strike a particular node cluster in that could only really be stimulated from positions like this.

Their lubricant-drenched arrays were clearly visible to the entire bar and the way Drift's rigid spike never completely left the CMO's valve had everyone hypnotised. Rodimus was forgotten as hungry optics tracked Drift’s every thrust, waiting with baited breath to see if  _this time_  he would withdraw completely to show off the subtle white-on-white biolighting of his spike that seemed almost translucent with Ratchet's valve fluids flowing steadily down it.

Ratchet was in his element, riding Drift's spike with all optics on him and moaning with abandon. The attention was more exhilarating than _anything_ Swerve had in stock. His own neglected spike throbbed painfully, jerking against his abdominal plating on the upstroke as Drift increased the force of his movements. By now the Speedster was venting in harsh open-mouthed pants against the back of Ratchet's neck. A dull ring of metal-on-metal joined the wet sounds of their interfacing as he started _slamming_ up into the Medic.

The CMO's optics roamed the room, drinking in the stunned, lust-filled expressions on the faceplates of those present with smug satisfaction.

 _The Party Ambulance rides again, slaggers_.

His optics alighted on Rodimus, abandoned and squirming against the tabletop in helpless lust and an idea formed. A positively  _delicious_  idea that he pinged straight to Drift without a moment's hesitation.

The answer came in the form of black fingers reaching up to the glass of Ratchet's chest, scraping paint transfers onto the smooth surface as Drift clutched the Medic to himself and tangibly fought the urge to overload right then and there.

When he regained control of himself, Drift gripped Ratchet's hips again and slowly lifted the Medic off his spike, giving Ratchet a few moments to recover and bring his his legs back from where they'd been flung wide over Drift’s thighs. Purring at realisation that every single optic in the place was fixed on his exposed and dripping valve, Ratchet took his own sweet time in standing up.

Reaching back to grasp Drift’s hand, the Medic sauntered casually over to Rodimus with Drift following in a sort of daze. The pouts and looks of disappointment on the faceplates of those they passed as were _hilarious_. He wished vaguely that he could see the reactions to the white paint transfers that would undoubtedly be decorating his aft after the pounding drift had just given him.

Ratchet caught the bound Mech’s optic and winked,  _finally_  wrapping a hand around his untouched spike and stroking it loosely, teasingly. He sighed as aching sensors were soothed back into a delicious burn by barely-there pressure. Rodimus' expression brightened and his glossa slid out to taste his upper lip, optics glued to the Medic's exposed equipment.

Rodimus was so absorbed in what Ratchet was doing that he didn't even notice Drift until the Swordsmech cupped his cheek and ran a thumb along his lower lipplate.

"We appear to have a little problem, Captain." Drift said, smearing Rodimus' own oral solvents over the Captain's mouthplates with one hand and gesturing to his pink-stained spike with the other. "Would you mind helping us with it?"

Rodimus shook his head frantically, cheekpieces digging into the padding of his table. Drift made optic contact with Ultra Magnus, silently seeking authorisation. Magnus barely looked up from his data pad, nodding at Drift and rubbing long strokes against the crest of Rodimus' helm with two fingers before breaking all contact with the Captain's frame and leaving him in the capable hands of the other Officers.

Ratchet moved into position behind Rodimus, running his hands up the back of the Captain's thighs to let him know he was there, admiring the positively lewd number of paint transfers adorning the Captain’s red aft and thighs while reaching forward to teasingly stimulate some sensor clusters in the red spoiler just to make him twitch and moan. Between them, Drift and Ratchet gently shifted the Captain's fluid-streaked frame so that he was in the most comfortable position for what they had planned.

The sharp musical revving of various engine ratings filled the bar as the spectators realised just what was about to happen.

"If you don't mind, Sir. I need a hand cleaning this up." Drift said, kneeling on the table so that his messy spike was within easy reach of Rodimus' faceplates.

Rodimus extended his glossa, mouth wide and optics fixed on the lubricant-covered spike that was held just out of reach. Over the red-and-gold back Drift caught sight of a truly  _evil_  grin on Ratchet's faceplates before the CMO bent forwards and began laving Rodimus' valve with long, slow strokes of his glossa, cleaning Brainstorm's silvery spill from the Captain's array. Rodimus' optics snapped offline and he moaned; desperation altering to bliss as Drift watched the white chevron bob away at the other end of their thoroughly debauched Captain.

Ratchet lifted his head from Rodimus' valve, glossa running over his lipplates while fresh lubricant dribbled down his chin.

"You need to get cleaned up so we can go, kid." The CMO said conversationally, taking his spike in hand to run the tip through Rodimus' folds, spreading the slippery combination of the Speedster's lubricant and his own oral solvent over the regions he'd just licked clean. "Or are you just showing off your spike?"

Ratchet could feel optics burning into his backplates as he teased Rodimus with the head of his spike, lingering over node clusters and thrusting gently against the opening of the desperately clenching orifice. The Medic could feel more lubricant flow from his own loosely flexing valve to join the rest of the pinkish fluid streaking his white thighs. This was hitting all of his kinks _so hard_ he was certain he'd overload the instant he finally breached Rodimus' well-used valve.

"Just admiring the view. Sorry Ratch'" Drift's EM field flared with brief embarrassment as be brought his sticky spike within easy reach of Rodimus’ urgently seeking mouthplates.

Rodimus’ entire frame was quivering from the delicate teasing of his valve. It was such a drastic change from the hard usage at the hands of the last few mechs to avail themselves of his position it sent a fresh wave of lust pouring through his systems. His desperation to be filled translated into swift, messy licking at the array of the mech by his helm. Broad, frantic swipes of hot glossa darting over Drift's pale spike as Rodimus tried his best to clean Ratchet's fluids from it, as had been implied was expected of him.

Drift lost his balance at the sudden, uncoordinated assault; pitching forwards with a moan to catching himself and bracing against the table top with both hands. He ended up hunched over Rodimus' head while the bound mech continued to lap enthusiastically at his stained and sticky interfacing hardware. Overcome, Drift raised his head, seeking out Ratchet.

When they made optic contact, Ratchet smirked and stopped teasing the bound mech, pushing forwards with one smooth thrust to sheathe himself in Rodimus' dripping port. By now Rodimus was so relaxed and soaked with lubrication that there was almost no friction, only the electric tingle of their over-charged nodes exchanging charge as Ratchet began a heavy pattern of thrusts, never once breaking optic contact with Drift.

The Swordsmech shuddered, engine roaring under the wild ministrations of Rodimus' glossa. He held optic contact with Ratchet as it was a lifeline; afraid to acknowledge the mecha around them and break the spell of lust pounding through his lines in perfect time with Ratchet’s hips. The Medic's optics were dark teal with the lust fuelling the sharp snaps of his hips as he chased the razor-thin edge of overload within Rodimus.

Ratchet went first.

The glorious freedom of reviving a piece of himself thought long-dead was too much for him when it was combined with Drift's lust-drunk expression as he devoured Ratchet with his optics. The overload ripped through his frame with the speed and force of a pyroclastic flow, current exploding from his spike in a wave of hot silver charge.

The Medic's frame seized as his spike pumped nanite-laden fluid deep into the Captain's valve, mouth hanging slackly open and optics blazing white. His engine roared, the vibration combining with the influx of hot fluid into Rodimus' valve to send the Captain into his umpteenth overload of the evening.

Seeing the two interlocked mechs overload in tandem send a hot shudder up Drift’s backstrut moments before the crescendo of the overload slammed through their EM fields to drag Drift along for the ride. He'd never seen Ratchet look so unburdened and free in the entire time he'd known him.

This had definitely been a good idea.

Drift couldn't keep his optics away, gladly accepting the risk of having them short out as he forced them to remain on Ratchet. Groaning, he drank in the Medic's transcendent expression while his spike covered Rodimus' pleasure-contorted faceplates with thick gobs of hot, sticky fluid.

Exhausted, the three mechs slumped together on the padded table in a pile of sated metal while the cooling fans of everyone present roared in muted applause.

After a few moments Ratchet onlined his optics and lifted his helm from where it had come to rest in the small of Rodimus’ back. Drift was open-mouthed and gasping, crouched over the Captain’s helm with his optics fixed blindly somewhere in the vicinity of Ratchet’s chestplate.

The Medic groaned, slowly withdrawing his depressurising spike from the Captain’s valve, freeing a small lake of his nanites and Rodimus’ lubricant. The mixture of their fluids flowed sluggishly from Rodimus’ lax valve to join the half-dried stains and assorted paint transfers decorating the speedster’s red thighs.

“Come on Drift, let’s get out of here.” Ratchet said, extending his hand and EM field towards the shivering mech.

Wordlessly, Drift took the Medic’s red-plated hand and allowed himself to be drawn down off the table. Ratchet pulled Drift into a gentle kiss, EM field soothing as the Swordsmech melted under his lipplates.

By the time they broke apart their flaccid spikes had retreated, secondary and primary plating folded properly back in place. Ratchet spared a glance at the bound mech on the table, seeing that Ultra Magnus had him well in hand. The 2IC was holding a concentrated energon gel to Rodimus’ lipplates and asking a question too low for Ratchet to make out over the music.

Dismissing the pair, he wrapped an arm around Drift’s waist and steered him towards the door, ignoring everyone in the room with an ease and aplomb that came from millennia of being the most terrifying Medic on both sides of a warzone. Drift’s own arm slowly wound its way around Ratchet’s waist as the Speedster leant his head against a square shoulder, engine purring contentedly.

“Mmmm, that was fun. Can we do it again sometime?” Drift mumbled, nuzzling the side of Ratchet’s helm as they exited the bar.

“Sure thing,” There was nobody around to witness Ratchet kissing the top of Drift’s helm as they headed slowly in the direction of washracks and recharge. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”


End file.
